


The Hopeful Romantic

by MercurySkies



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 15:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11039220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurySkies/pseuds/MercurySkies
Summary: 'After Yuuri, it persists. The ache is sharp now, he can recall what is missing, what he doesn’t have and he can’t decide if it’s worse or better. Yuuri had been a whirlwind of colour, looking at him had filled him with his light but most of all he’d felt the phantom of his own joy, love and happiness try to trickle back into his veins; drips of it escaping like Yuuri had turned the tap back on just half an inch. It worries him more that’s for sure.'Viktor Nikiforov is lonely but he's hopeful that that's about to change.





	The Hopeful Romantic

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a quick little character piece I decided to write when I wasn't having the best day haha. I was aiming to kind of explore loneliness and how it feels and how it might explain what Viktor was experiencing before Yuuri. Enjoy! :)

They don’t understand. Truth be told Viktor doesn’t either. He just knows it aches, a hollow feeling in his chest. Every breath rattles a ribcage that feels empty, the bones feeling fractured, the splinters rasping at his insides. He feels old. He feels that plenty usually, he doesn’t understand a word Yuri says sometimes but he feels  _ ancient _ nowadays, like a stone, still standing but weathered, eroding, disintegrating. A weariness that washes everything in grey and the cool air of St Petersburg feels like smoke burning through him, thick and cloying and ugly.

 

The ice feels more unforgiving, silences at the rink seem longer, harsher, overhead the fluorescent lights burn, equally harsh but they chase away the shadows that return when he steps off. Yakov tells him he’s pushing too hard, that there’s something flat about him. Viktor asks what he’d prefer, him working too hard at the rink or playing too hard elsewhere. The words are sharp, taste bitter and metallic as he says them. Yakov scowls and squeezes his arm but he says nothing and Viktor wishes he would.

 

He calls Chris, he hangs out with his rink mates, smiles and laughs. Then it ends. He goes home, walks into a dark and quiet apartment. The sounds made by his puttering and Makkachin’s loping footsteps echo in the too big space. The world is too big, St Petersburg is too big, his home, his bed, his heart. He lies curled around Makkachin, fingers buried in soft fur and feels his heart beat. It feels sluggish, nothing but emptying chambers. He lies there and sleep never comes, his body aches, his bones, his eyes and his chest and he can’t breathe. Gasping sobs tear through him, face streaming and sticking as he buries it in Makkachin’s fur. She whines plaintively, a worried sound and Viktor find himself choking out apologies until his voice goes hoarse. He isn’t sure who he’s apologising to anymore.

 

* * *

 

After Yuuri, it persists. The ache is sharp now, he can recall what is missing, what he doesn’t have and he can’t decide if it’s worse or better. Yuuri had been a whirlwind of colour, looking at him had filled him with his light but most of all he’d felt the phantom of his own joy, love and happiness try to trickle back into his veins; drips of it escaping like Yuuri had turned the tap back on just half an inch. It worries him more that’s for sure. When it’s Yuuri’s face he sees as he falls asleep at night it startles him, scared he’s latching onto him simply because he was there, because he gave Viktor everything without asking anything in return. Well except that one request, words slurred and muffled where he’d clung to him. How readily he’d said yes worries him, afraid of his own impulsivity that can so easily careen into self-destruction.

 

He waits anyway, trawls the internet for signs that he’s ready, calling to him. Day after day they don’t come. He indulges in little fantasies, snippets that cut as deep as the joy he feels reaches when he thinks of him. He walks St Petersburg pretending he has a hand in his own. He stands on Tuchkov bridge in the cold of winter and smiles at the brackish water below him. He’s aware he looks insane, feels it, but he can’t feel shame. The traffic roars past him but the headlights barely touch the surface of the river. His arms rest on the railing and his cold-tipped nose is tucked into his scarf as he imagines a moment much quieter.

 

He’d wait for him on the bridge, brighten as Viktor meets him and takes his gloved hands in his own. He’d laugh at the chattering of his teeth, still not used to a St Petersburg winter and he’d protest as Viktor unbuttons his coat and wraps the edges around him, forcing him close. But he’d sigh as his arms wrap around him, eyes watching the mist leave his mouth. He’d flinch, smiling as the man’s cold fingertips tug down his scarf, hear the soft giggle as he presses the cold tip of his nose to the warm hollow of his throat.

 

A love-sick sigh escapes him. His phone chirps, a text from Yuri asking if he’s dead because he’s more than an hour late to dinner with his rink mates. He apologises but doesn’t rush and feels the sweet contentment leach from him.

 

* * *

Yuuri’s form on the small screen of his phone is incandescent. Each scrape of the ice he can hear from the video sends a jolt through him, sets him on edge. The performance is... breath-taking. It lacks a certain finesse; the quads have been swapped but Viktor still thinks it’s better than he’s ever performed it. The video zooms in on Yuuri’s lone figure at the end and his satisfied smile. Yuuri’s eyes, steadfast with determination make Viktor’s decision for him. They owe each other nothing but Viktor said he’d answer when Yuuri was ready to call. This is call enough, even if that isn’t what Yuuri intended when he skated his programme. It’s what Viktor wants it to be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was debating posting this so if it's up I finally bit the bullet. Thank you for reading!


End file.
